


Rhapsody For Heartstrings

by prettyshiroic (dinosuns)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Acceptance, Catharsis, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Bonding, Family Dynamics, Gen, Internal Conflict, Introspection, Miscommunication, Mission Fic, Mother-Son Relationship, Personal Growth, Reconciliation, Sparring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-04-06 19:04:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14063478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dinosuns/pseuds/prettyshiroic
Summary: Krolia hears it. Something calls him, some destiny she cannot foresee and fears to glimpse. It is bigger and brighter than anything she has ever known. And it has both the power to consume her son or complete him.





	Rhapsody For Heartstrings

**Author's Note:**

> SO excited to share this !!! let's go - translations at the end

“You’re my…?”

Keith stares openly at her, all whilst the embers stoked on his words die out in the face of this reunion. Krolia remains still, watching him attentively for signs on how to proceed. She is unsure how to rekindle those flames, how to approach this. But every action counts, perhaps more so than every word. That’s proven as she leans back to plant her feet firmer on the ground, and rather than step forward to close the distance Keith takes one backward in turn.

The distance shouldn’t bruise so much. It shouldn’t be so tangible, an entity that is all too present and pressing hard on her shoulders.

“You’re…”

“Yes,” Krolia finishes, because it’s abundantly clear Keith cannot bring himself to verbalise this yet for whatever reason. She is his mother. Keith - _Keith -_ is her son _._ The name is so very sacred, one that constantly nestles itself in her chest, plucking hard at her ribs until the bones around her heart ache and dig too deeply inwards. Even now, the tightness is difficult to waylay. Set against this reunion is something macabre, tugging the strings that bind them with enough force to unravel.  

Her son is here, the son she had vowed to protect and keep far from this place. He is here, he is _fighting._

Keith stands but a few feet away, close enough to draw into a hug she cannot permit herself to initiate. The rigid and steady stance she maintains is a convenient disguise for the shock coursing through her veins. If she holds her head high enough, he won’t catch the way her jaw clenches a little too hard, how her nails curl into her sides, how her shoulders lock not with the attention of an obedient and diligent soldier but with the despair of a mother who lost so much.

And she may face losing it all again.

Now the imminent threat has passed, Krolia can finally indulge her instinct to look at him.To observe and to see him truly. Drink in all the details of him, all the intricacies that make up his design. Priorities remould themselves into something personal, something that has always had the power to knock the breath from her lungs and yet still keep her breathing. _Her son._

Keith’s face has hardened with age, but there still remains a softer layer of skin that accentuates his cheekbones. When he was smaller, his cheeks had been chubby and easy to pinch; Krolia doesn’t doubt she could still pinch them now. His eyes are as big and beautiful as they were the first time they opened. But they’re sharper, feasting on knowledge in order to become more aware. Even as a baby, Keith had been curious and incredibly perceptive about his surroundings. That has grown into something truly impressive. Some of what lingers there is readable, but other parts are not. The eyes that rest on her are familiar and foreign, a jarring paradox that makes complete sense.

These eyes are a world she sorely yearns to understand, and they are fixed intently on her. As if her presence commands some inescapable gravity, Keith doesn’t look away. Her slowly scans her face, eyes mapping out as much as he can. The attention is not quite as comforting as a reunion ought to be. If anything, it’s unsettling. Especially as the silence stretches but Keith doesn’t try to break it.

He doesn't initiate anything. He is unresponsive, simply a watcher. And perhaps that is what has Krolia’s posture loosening. Her son wishes to be an observer in a scene where he is so much more. Keith is the catalyst, the very purpose of her existence and everything that has driven Krolia this far.

If anyone is to be a watcher here, it should be her.

Lowering her chin, Krolia levels her gaze. Their eyes finally catch and the dulled embers burst into life without restraint. A visceral and blistering ferocity behind every flame leaves nowhere to hide, painful to endure as it exposes too much. But still, neither look away. If there is one thing Krolia is good at it is persisting, never yielding. It appears that her son bears the same gift.

“I never expected to see you out here, Keith. Whilst I’m not glad that you’re part of this war, I am proud of you.”

Keith hums absently at that. The reaction is once again, that of someone who is choosing to be an observer. Considering Keith seemed discontent with standing on the sidelines during their mission, it’s an alarming anomaly. Krolia cannot fathom why such a polarity exists.

Before she can begin to search those eyes for answers, he casts them elsewhere. Krolia chases his gaze to no avail, fang biting the corner of her lip and sucking hard. It’s just a look. One look. Yet the absence of it has broken more than she can articulate within her. No, it’s already all splintered into pieces. Krolia had foolishly entertained the thought that this reunion would set everything right. And that is no surprise. For even though Krolia has never been wistful or fantastical, endeavours to work with the facts alone, Keith is at the nexus of every dream she has ever dared to dream.

Some might consider that kind of love to be a weakness, Krolia considers it her greatest strength.

Possibly, this is her most redeeming quality. Though whether it will redeem the time that has been snatched from the pair of them, Krolia is unsure.

Without ceremony, Keith sits back down in the seat. And as he does so, he grows hopelessly further from this one-sided conversation. The way his shoulders hunch is closer to a flinch than anything else. She wants to ask, in a fit of desperation that climbs up her spine, _what does that mean? Do you not believe me? My son, what are you trying to tell me-_

She doesn’t get the chance. Disengaging the cruise of the autopilot, Keith grips the controls tight and rams the ship back into a ferocious speed. Suddenly, they’re soaring. It’s fiery, daring-

“What are you doing?!” Krolia asks above the screeching of the sentry ship. From what she can see on the sensors there are no enemies on their path. Her hand grips the back of the pilot seat tightly for support. That’s when she realises her mistake too late. Keith leans back to execute a turn, resulting in her fingers ghosting through the hair on his head. His hair is so soft, curling at the nape of his neck just like hers. Keith tilts his head forward moments later, slipping out of reach. It’s subtle enough to simply be natural. But Krolia can’t tell from this angle. She digs her nails into the seat, forceful enough to carve marks.

“You said it yourself. This is war,” Keith quips, eyes trained ahead. “We just got out one mess, we don’t have time for another.”

There’s a force behind the words that is heightened as he propels them through space. What he says is true, though Krolia wonders how much of this is evasion. It changes nothing. They fall into a quiet that cannot be silenced, and it stays that way for the duration of the flight.  

Keith flies better than almost any pilot Krolia has ever encountered. He absolutely takes after his father in this respect. He’s sharp and attuned to their perimeter; he is bold and brazen, on the verge of reckless but not quite diving off the edge. It’s masterfully controlled. And as he moves with the stars - not against them, never against them - the universe welcomes it. It bends to his will, it listens and it coaxes him closer.

Krolia hears it. Something calls him, some destiny she cannot foresee and fears to glimpse. It is bigger and brighter than anything she has ever known. And it has both the power to consume her son or complete him.

As they dock up at the Blade of Marmora headquarters, Krolia offers Keith a small smile. It presses heavy on her mouth, threatening to turn the edges downward, but she bears it.

“Thank you, Keith. I doubt many could have piloted such a ship so well in the circumstances we faced.”

Keith releases the controls, getting to his feet. As the seat slides back, his eyes don’t leave the console.

“We should probably get going,” he offers. “Kolivan will want to know more about the mission.”

“You’re right. Let’s move.”

Hands pressed close to her sides, Krolia follows him out the ship. As the hallway widens, she takes two large strides forward. Keith doesn’t match her pace, lingering but a few steps behind. He falls into her shadow. Perhaps it’s the kind of shadow her absence cast on him. Thus it’s the only place he can walk that makes sense, where neither can see each other’s face.

Shaking the thought, Krolia adjusts the blaster on her belt. They walk in unbearable quiet that stews, echoing footsteps being the only sound to prevent complete remoteness.  

Off-mission, she notes their footsteps are out of sync.

* * *

Time wears even the greatest warriors, corrodes even the strongest of stone. For Kolivan, it has weathered him in discreet ways only knowing eyes could see. The scar on his face is faded, no longer fresh and sore enough to swell the right eyelid. Over the course of their time apart, the discoloured skin has regrown and strengthened. The scar is no longer the only line on his face, however. Beneath his eyes are thick crevasses, his mouth is framed by prominent corners.

The last time Krolia saw Kolivan, it had been on a stuttering screen via a brief communications call before being too deep within enemy lines to send anything other than encrypted text files. In person, their last meeting had been by the ship she was to board to get to Rainveig’s base. They diverged paths swiftly, Kolivan concise but never curt with words. She expects no less in this situation.

There’s the trace of something rare flashing in Kolivan’s eyes as he looks over to Keith upon their arrival. Her son stands silent but firm, waiting to report back to their leader. There is clear respect emanating from his disposition. It’s so serious and earnest that it’s endearing. But now is not the time to fawn over her child, or wonder if she even has that luxury anymore. Breaking the awkward beginnings, with those concise yet never curt words, Kolivan presses his hands behind his back.

“Did you destroy the weapon?”

“The weapon is no longer a threat.” It’s a diplomatic answer, one Kolivan sees straight through. Again, Krolia expects no less.

“So it is destroyed?” he probes.

“It’s-“

“-No.” Keith’s interjection is blunt and pointed. Moreover, exasperated. He folds his arms, Krolia can feel his eyes fixed on her as he speaks. “Krolia gave them the password so we could get out in one piece.”

A searing insistence rushes through Krolia to clarify.

“Kolivan, the objective of the mission had to be altered to fit the situation.”

Keith steps forward, frustration palpable from his pinched expression. He mirrors her stance now, but that doesn’t mean they are one unit. The only thing that tethers them together in this room is Kolivan.

“The objective didn’t change. It was always the same and we failed.” For emphasis, Keith seems to find it necessary to repeat that. “We failed the mission.”

Krolia winces, answering back with just as much resolve to argue her case. If they failed then so be it. She doesn’t consider finding her son a failure, only the moments that led her to making the choice to leave in the first place.

“The situation changed, and therefore the objective had to be reconsidered.”

Keith is quick with his counterattack. “Krolia made a trade for my life. She chose me over the mission.”

Something passes between Kolivan and Keith then that Krolia cannot place. Echoes of conversations she has not been present for are unfolding. Bowing his head, Keith clenches a fist. Kolivan doesn’t look ashamed or disappointed, but Keith’s reaction is one that infers he believes that is the case. Meeting eyes with Kolivan, Krolia cocks her head towards her son. There is no response, only a reminder that Kolivan is still infuriating in his ability to evade answering personal questions.

Concise but never curt.

“I stand by my choice. And I assure you, Kolivan, the weapon poses no further threat. The mission may not have gone as planned but I consider it complete.” Lowering her voice, Krolia hisses. “Might I remind you, Kolivan, _you sent him to me_.”

Keith bristles at that, evidently catching wind of the words despite the dip in volume. He’s as ever sly and acute as she always has been. Resuming, Krolia lifts her head. Whatever is lingering here, it is more than simply a dialogue between leader and their subordinate. Whatever conversations have passed between them, it is not hard to miss the way Keith struggles to accept that he has to some extent failed a mission.

That makes the next words easy to part with.

“If there is someone who should take responsibility for the outcome of this mission, then it is myself and myself alone.”

That has Keith’s gaze snapping up. Krolia doesn’t look his way, but the intensity of it burns in her peripheral.

“You both must be tired,” is all Kolivan says after a weighted pause that reveals none of the cards he holds in his hand. It’s amusing to think he is actually terrible at games that deal with real cards. “Return to your quarters. There will be a reconvening for assignments in the morning.”

With a weak nod, Keith turns to leave. Krolia remains still. Not until certain Keith is out of earshot does she speak. The lack of his presence is uncomfortable, despite having endured years without it.

“You sent him to me. Why?”

Kolivan’s expression hardens. His brow is sturdier than stone, near impossible for anything besides the jurisdiction he commands to permeate through pores. But Krolia knows this look better than most. Whilst it is commonly mistaken for something stern, it often is deployed in order to disguise the way his lips twist when faced with a personal matter.

His lips are definitely twisting.

“Keith passed the trial,” Kolivan explains. “As a blade, it is standard procedure that he carry out whatever mission he is given.”

“He is not just a blade, Kolivan!” The heat is difficult to contain, spreading rapidly through her veins. Krolia doesn’t appreciate being led around circles she has spiralled in herself and wrung with her hands. “He is _my son,_ my son that you sent directly into a warzone to assist me. Alone.”

No matter how skilled Keith has proven to be in a ship, the debris field was nothing short of a perilous journey. Yet Keith had flown through it. Twice. All whilst acutely aware they could have died.

“Those are very same circumstances you were faced with had it not been for his intervention.”

Kolivan is cautious in all aspects of his demeanour, he selects his words meticulously. And these words he has chosen are further proof time hasn’t changed this. Even now, he meanders with poise and enviable tact around issues whilst simultaneously addressing them directly. It’s not deception or evasion - it’s caution that is born from experience.

Kolivan is a speaker unparalleled; Krolia cannot hope to compete or best him in this field. But that’s fine, because she’s not here to argue or fight battles that don’t need to be fought.

She’s here to understand, to gain back the time lost to the crushing jaws of war and pour it carefully back into the space between her and her son.

“I had control of the base, and the weapon’s security. Only I knew the access codes. Even if the defences were broken, I could have handled this without assistance.”

“Whilst that is true, it is likely it would have been at the cost of your life.”

It’s a smart response that demands more than what Krolia has sitting on her tongue. Lips pursed, she scowls. Any other time and she would be in an undeniable checkmate - but not today. Given Kolivan’s underhanded plan to bring personal affairs into the mix whilst then denying it, Krolia thinks her next move is entirely fair. Krolia can be concise too, decorum isn’t the priority here.

“Knowledge or death, Kolivan.” Her lips twitch as Kolivan frowns. She’s steered this on the right track. “You’ve always said the blade of Marmora doesn’t deal in chances or probability. Why is this different?”

“You would have never seen him again.”

That is cause for the wry smile curling in the corner of her mouth to wane. Kolivan is forever impressive, always knowing exactly what to say and what not to say. And it’s the things in the sediment that sits beneath the words which mean the most, that Krolia cups gently in her hands to cherish.

“You sent him to save my life…” Krolia breathes. In the aftermath of her revelation, Kolivan remains quiet. It’s a confirmation.

“I fear it is too late.” Eyes averted, Krolia sighs. There is a truth that has been dancing precariously across her skin, never quite sinking in. “You should have seen how he looked at me, Kolivan. Maybe you shouldn’t have sent him to me.”

“I was unprepared to be a bystander to your death. Nor was I prepared to play a hand in preventing this reunion. I stand by my choice, as you have with your own.”

The conviction is unsurprising, but the softness smoothing over the syllables is. Kolivan does not often take such a tone. In fact, the last time he spoke in such a way had been the day she left Keith with Kaine on earth. Kolivan outstretches his hand. Grabbing it, Krolia squeezes much tighter than planned. Kolivan doesn’t seem to mind. In one wordless gesture he uses their conjoined hands to bring them an inch closer. With a relieved exhale, she laughs humourlessly.

“Was this your choice alone, or did the others sway you?”

Krolia can almost hear Ulaz’s insistence that they must intervene to bring her back. It makes the laugh tickling her throat almost light and weightless, until something shifts in Kolivan’s eyes and his hold on her arm laxes. She is no stranger to what this means. Krolia leans into the brace, keeping them balanced together. The grief hits her fast and hard, almost too strong to swallow.

“Who?”

“Many have fallen,” Kolivan responds solemnly.

Reaching into his pocket with his free hand, Kolivan holds up his notebook bound in worn Largon scales that shed from the mighty space beasts. Krolia recognises the notebook immediately. Very few have seen it, or even know of its existence. And even if they had seen it, it’s unlikely they would know what lies inside. Kolivan exposing this piece of himself adds gravity to the moment. Thace’s warm encouraging smile, Ulaz’s fierce resilience, Antok’s poor attempts at being stoic and undetached. They were gone from this life, echoes scattered in the stars. Kolivan has yet to say their names but Krolia can feel it in her gut.

They’re gone.

_Who else was gone? Who else had fallen?_

“For each, there is a passage I have composed. If you wish, you may take this and pay your respects in the solace of your quarters.” Kolivan finally squeezes back. The brief pressure is welcomed, for a moment. Releasing the hold, Krolia takes the book into her hands. The cover is rough against her palms. This is a sacred item, personal and private. Yet it is laden with the most beautiful words worthy of belonging in the atheneum amongst other great wordsmiths and poets.

“...Zelkaxim travoust, Foentarra,” she murmurs.  

The words are the right ones. Kolivan bows his head, hands clasped behind his back once more.

“Zelkaxim travoust, Krolia.”

Now if only she could find the right words with her son.

* * *

Krolia rises early. Then she showers fast, the water set to its coldest. 

Despite all the changes, this is one thing that remains the same and always will. It’s a routine she is resolved to maintain. Without it, her mind wanders too far into a woeful wood where the branches are spindly and the path is hidden. The purpose she forges for herself each day instils enough internal conflict, her heart forever tugs in the opposite direction to her duty. Only in the languid mornings does she truly feel how much that hurts.

And cold showers many not dampen the vivid dreams that keep her on the edge of jolting awake, but it allows her to start forgetting them. Focus on how the icy water can gnaw with serrated teeth down her spine.

The chill on her skin never compares to that biting cold she felt when parting with her son. Nothing will.

On the side of the bedroom, a blade’s uniform is laid out. Krolia stares at it longer than she ought to. It’s obvious there would be one prepared; her former uniform is hardly appropriate now. The sharp red and yellow tones of the empire are lost to deep purples and blues. It has been a long time since she wore this suit. Almost as long as the time she has been away from her son.

Krolia remembers when this suit fit so well, when it was warm and felt like home. There was no Kaine, no earth. No Keith. Just the blade and the mission. Her comrades in arms. The eulogies Kolivan had written were read reverently in the hush of the night. According to the words, even Sorang’s younger cousin Regris, had fallen.

It is terrible, how ready they are to die and how ready death is to take them. It is terrible how it is a part of war, and it is terrible how she cannot find tears when mourning for them.

Hands skating over the front of the suit, Krolia traces absent patterns across the material. They must have had some updates in her absence. Subtle but efficient. The seams don’t catch around the chest, the fabric has more give. Humming at the handiwork that must have been Ulaz’s design, Krolia pulls the suit up. She stares it down, like one night a foe or a demon lurking in the shadows ready to stroke. Perhaps it is, in some ways.

Her reckoning, her next trial.

 _“Put it on,”_ Kaine had mumbled against her neck in the hush of a dawn that beckoned her away. It had been convenient he stood behind her as they stared at the suit on their bed. That way, he was unable to see the hot prickly moisture poking at her eyes. She had made the choice, now she had to see it through.

The words she never spoke on earth are torn from her now.

“I can’t do it.”

Krolia sets the suit down with hands that quiver, eyes wide and burning. Everything is burning. Memories are blazing more ferociously than they are supposed to, clearer in this agonising heat than they have been for years.

The suit towers over her as she slowly slumps down onto her knees. It’s a beacon she followed her entire life, the one assurance good had not been stamped out by the tyranny of the empire. And then Krolia had been granted an unexpected gift, and the good in the universe only kept flourishing. It burst into vibrant colours, swelled inside her and grew into something beautiful until the cry of war screamed louder.

If Kolivan could see this, he would be so disappointed in this weakness plaguing her. As would Kaine. She owes it to Keith, to them. And it’s Keith that holds the key to her resolve. In one swift motion, Krolia hauls herself up.

She puts on the suit.

It is a symbol of sacrifice and strength, testament to the lengths she has gone for the war. It is testament to those who have fallen, her friends she has amongst these stars.

This time, it must be testament to the lengths she will go for her son.

* * *

It turns out that Keith is equally as much as an early riser. For the next few days that pass, Krolia barely sees him. She catches the whispers of his footsteps as his presence floats in and out of reach. The turbulence of this is felt by only her, can only be understood by her. Though that doesn’t stop the devastating confession tumbling from her lips.

“I don’t know how to do this, Kolivan,” she admits in the hush of a secluded hallway.

The leader of the blades stands tall, but his eyes catch the light in a way that is consoling. “That is not reasonable enough grounds for you to simply give up on this mission.”

“Mission…”

“Yes.” Concise but never curt. “Nothing is more important than the mission.”

And so as Kolivan’s wisdom closes yet another day, Krolia’s apprehension begins another one. She’s orbiting the centre of her universe at a distance which leaves her strung between desolate moons, unsure how to make it past the outer edges. Or if she should, for that matter.  

The next day decides it for her. As she steps into the refectory - the same as it had been since she joined the blades - Krolia is greeted by a rare opportunity. In the corner of the room, at a table further from the small group chatting together, sits Keith. It’s a rare sight that renders her both speechless and motionless; she’s never managed to find him off-duty, to approach him when they’re off the clock. No matter what hour, between official business Keith remains elusive.

There’s concentration pinching his brow, sweat beading on his skin. Despite the early hours, he’s undoubtedly been training. Hard. Or, as Kolivan called her own sessions countless times, fruitless self-sabotage. Squeeze the emotions out, cleave it from his body and strike through the gaping holes. It’s easier to survive that way.

Now as Keith sits, he’s very still. The exhaustion has him slumped over with lidded eyes, senses dulled enough for Krolia to sneak closer without notice. It’s not until she stands by the table that Keith’s glazed expression hardens.

“Krolia…” he breathes, posture tightening in his seat.

The way Keith speaks her name is full of misplaced reverence. He speaks it as if she is something secret and mysterious lost in time from a storybook tale, the kind written for children who wished to see myths with their own eyes just once. But those dreams are fragile, and it often isn’t long before children slam books shut in bitter disappointment because the thing they searched for never showed up.

Keith didn’t throw the book away. The gentle rapture that threatens to tear itself into shreds tells that particular story. Not seeing fiction become fact is neither proof or disproof of existence - so Keith clung to those pages all this time. But now she’s here, he can’t bring himself to read the book with new context. Keith can’t bring himself to look further than the opening lines.

And this is something Krolia has picked up on since their return to the base. Their conversation in the sentry ship had been the most they’d spoken. Because her son is tentative, almost cautious, around her. His presence is haunting - he becomes the ghost before she herself can become a ghost to him. It’s as if he expects her to suddenly vanish. He rarely looks at her with his mask off, but when he does there is something she doesn’t understand nestled there.

It’s not sadness -  but it’s just as heavy, tinged with the kind of frustration that simmers.

Sometimes Krolia wants to believe it could be the same longing for their bond to be tangible. More than words uttered in a sentry ship, more than resigned admissions between a knife. But she isn’t sure. Keith is alarmingly open with his body language, however that doesn’t mean she can get a read on his feelings about this - about her. There are areas of static she cannot decode.

All this serves as a reminder that Keith hasn’t called her mother yet. Whilst Krolia can hardly blame him, it stings.

“Hello Keith,” Krolia starts with as much conviction as she can.

It’s a little blunt, but it seems she and Keith both share the inability to meander around smalltalk. There’s a rattling in her chest that doesn’t belong, that hasn’t been there since she cradled this boy in her arms and questioned if she could ever give him the love he deserves. Kaine had laughed softly at that, kissing her forehead. _Of course you will, we both will._

“Can I take this seat?”

There’s instant fidgeting, all of Keith squirming as if uncertain and unsure about so many things. Krolia doesn’t know if this is uncharacteristic for her son or not. When he was a kit he would wiggle excitedly when laughing. Here, however, there is no trace of that joy.

Pursing his lips, Keith averts his gaze and gives a subtle but firm enough nod. It’s something.

Krolia sits, hands folded in her lap in order to squeeze her palms together out of sight. Keith’s picked out a purple fruit with tough prickly skin from the bowl, paying it more attention than necessary. The heat under Krolia’s skin is both warm and cutting.

“Your father used to love those,” she admits. Keith looks up, setting the Unakubi fruit down quickly. If she weren’t so perceptive, she might’ve missed the way he leans forward. There is a subtle and dynamic way to his movements, not unlike her own. Though the slanted curve of his lips is unmistakably inherited from his father.

“They don’t ripen very well on earth, but we did our best.”

Despite it being simple, the story doesn’t appear to be underwhelming to Keith. The gleam in his eyes burns too fiercely with a curiosity that isn’t voiced. Ducking his head, Keith taps the fruit absently.

“I-... never figured out how to peel them. The skin is pretty tough, so I just sort of…” making a chopping gesture with his hand that has Krolia’s heart bursting with suppressed affection, Keith continues, “chop them.”

It’s an unexpected but honest admission, something so mundane yet beguiling. The first thing Keith has divulged about himself. And it has Krolia choking on a laugh before she can reign it in. Snapping his head up, Keith watches her quietly. His expression is tinged with confusion. The laughter dwindles, because it’s an expression she recognises. He looks just as he did as a small precious infant, when she kissed his forehead and whispered two words against his ear in case they were the last.  

“I did the same as you. But your father found a way which stuck. I’m surprised he didn’t show you.”

The plant had grown a little lopsided under unfamiliar gravity, but they had managed to nurture it in their home.

“Yeah. Well.” Keith turns away. Unfortunately, Krolia recognises that look too. It’s grim acceptance for how the universe has shaped their lives, the kind of resignation a mother never wants to see on their child’s face. “Dad… Dad left a while back.”

_No._

“What? Where did he go?” The words are pried from her, breathless and uncertain. There’s a desperation seeping through that Krolia can’t begin to hide. Nothing could’ve prepared her for that. Their son had neither a loving mother or father. Her boy had been entirely alone in the world. _Their son._

With a helpless shrug Keith smiles. It’s all teeth, a reflex designed to stifle stronger and more volatile emotions. Krolia knows this. Still, it doesn’t soften the blow his voice lands on her chest.

“I don’t know.”

A hand slides down to her belly and presses the spot. Once it was swollen and full of the promise of life. That life now sits across the table. She brought him into this world, but it wasn’t her that kept him here. Krolia wasn’t there to watch over him and keep him safe. And now she learns that Kaine had not been there either.

All the love and tenderness that has been stolen from this family is unfair. But she is sure Kaine would never leave their son unless he had no other choice. He wouldn’t.

“How…” trailing off, Keith clears his throat. “How do you do it, then?”

“Do what?”

Keith gestures with his chin towards the bowl. “Peel it.”

It sounds like an opening, a chance to tread into new territory. Krolia is almost too afraid to take it.

“It’s actually very easy. Let me show you.” She goes to pick up Unakubi fruit, fingers grazing Keith’s in the process. The touch is potent, and neither of them move. Their eyes lock.

A gasp tears itself from Keith’s lips, too fractured to stifle. Krolia’s hands tremble, fingers itching to crane out enough to touch him. Feel her son’s hands, pat his face or draw him into her arms. Hold him, _her son_. Her wonderful son who has grown up all too fast. It’s a yearning, agonising. She can barely suppress it, but has to. Because Keith has yet to sought her out first, Keith has yet to initiate.

The war has taken so much from them, but she cannot hold just circumstance accountable.

It’s not just inches between their hands, it’s years. Years that have unravelled between them too fast, only made the distance cataclysmically concrete.

As her fingers curl around the fruit, Keith retracts his hand. But not before his thumb swipes past her palm. Keith lingers in a way that could be deliberate, yet it’s absent enough to be purely accidental.

She isn’t sure which one is the truth, or what it means.

“Watch me closely now.” Krolia hopes Keith doesn’t realise the softness in her voice is the price to pay for keeping an unpleasant lump in her throat from bursting. “Or else you might miss something important like I did.”

* * *

 When Krolia walks into the refectory the next day, she finds a finely peeled Unakubi fruit waiting for her on the table they sat. There are jagged lines around the exterior, indicating a knife was partly used to pry it open. The rest of the work, however, had been done by hands alone.

Despite the thoughtful gesture, there’s no sign of her son.

Glancing around the refectory, devoid of the person she wants to see, Krolia sits. It’s close to empty at this time, but she’ll wait a little longer before clearing out. Just in case Keith returns. Drumming her fingers on the table, Krolia stares at the fruit. It’s still fresh, which means Krolia must have just missed him and it’s as if the universe is taking satisfaction in mocking their situation. It pokes and prods in places that bruise far too easily. Then it prods again and again, harder until the bones begin to snap under immeasurable scorn.

She doesn’t care to count how much time passes as she sits here. The fruit is sweet on her tongue, but overall blander than she remembers. Perhaps that has everything to do with the fact neither Kaine or Keith are sharing it with her.

A pair of blades she doesn’t recognise take the other side of the table to have their morning meal. And whilst Krolia isn’t one to indulge idle gossip or eavesdropping, Keith is not the most common name amongst aliens. So when she hears it being uttered, her attention drifts towards them. Leaning her head in her palm, Krolia listens carefully.

“You’d think it were Keith’s trial, the way they’re fighting up there.”

The second blade grunts. “It should be. Being a former paladin doesn’t make him any better than the rest of us.”

“Tell that to Kolivan. He clearly favours the boy.”

“Oh, you think so?”

Slamming a fist on the table, the first of the pair scowls. “Why else would he keep giving Keith so many chances? You know he sabotaged our mission to protect the black paladin and Lotor.”

“I’m aware of the events, as I’m sure every blade here is.”

“Are you two done with this cute little meeting of yours?”  

Krolia is so invested in the conversation that she almost jumps as much as they do when the third voice interrupts. It’s unheard of for someone to catch her off-guard, but if anybody could then it’s Sorang. Krolia would recognise the lilt to her voice, and that dexterous scaly tail anywhere. And not much appears to have changed. Sorang is still quick to intervene. Leaning over the pair, Krolia’s old friend raises an eyebrow. There’s such an animated nature to Sorang, it momentarily dispels all troubles.

“I have a lot to say that could put your words to shame, you know! So do you have time to listen, _hm_?”

Krolia stands, a budding smile she has no hope of containing stretching across her face. Arms folding over her chest, she bumps shoulders with Sorang.

“You two ought to listen.”

“Are you going to say hello?” Sorang quips with a light elbow nudge, shock poorly masked. “It’s only been four-hundred and seventeen missions since our last together.”

Krolia blinks. “You counted?”

Tail swishing to smack Krolia’s hip, Sorang narrows her eyes. The playful twitch of her lips gives the game away. “You didn’t?”

It’s uncommon for blades to be informed of others’ whereabouts. Undercover operatives must conduct their work with the utmost secrecy. Sorang knows nothing, and Krolia knows only the intel obtained from missions. Speak of missions brings Krolia back to the focal point. It’s nice to see Sorang, but she can reunite with old friends later. Right now, she has important business.

Krolia turns to the other two, the two that had the audacity to talk about Keith in such a displeasing way. Eyes narrow, a snarl curling on the corner of her mouth. Blades bearing children is uncommon, virtually unheard of. So Krolia holds the advantage here of knowing more than they do. In a place that values knowledge so highly, it should feel more like a gloating victory.

It doesn’t. Because the words they spoke harboured concerning information.

“This fight. Where is it?” Her words curl around a low growl that is far from civil. Neither of the blades hesitate to provide an answer, fumbling over their words. It would be amusing in another situation; Sorang laughs on Krolia’s behalf as she leaves the room.

Fortunately, the room of the alleged fight is not too far from the refectory. Krolia charges at a brisk pace through the maze of hallways. As she rounds the next corner, there’s the unmistakable clanging of blades. Then comes a laboured grunt of exertion. It’s raspy and low. Keith, as expected.

What Krolia hears next, however, she doesn’t expect.

“I’ve been tolerant of you, I have worked with you when necessary. But it remains a wonder that an earthling as weak and insubordinate as yourself ever gained a place here among us.”

Krolia recognises that voice - Ilune’s. Irritation seeps through her veins at those words. How dare all these blades speak so illy of her son. To Ilune’s words, Keith gives no response other than a strangled battle cry. Weapons clash faster as Krolia gets closer to the doorway. She’s there just in time to see Keith narrowly dodging a strike from his opponent, fluently weaving around to pivot forward once more. There is admirable grace in his movements.

“When you compromised our mission so selfishly, you put the whole universe in jeopardy!”

Keith continues to defend himself, but only with actions. Words appear to be too much of a feat, which is unsurprising given the unforgiving and punishing pace Ilune sets. She always had been remarkably quick with her jabs.

“Thanks to you, Lotor sits on the throne when we could have abolished the entire regime in one crushing blow at the kral zera.”

Ilune charges at a speed Keith can hardly match. But he has the advantage of being smaller and extremely nimble. In one swift move, Keith rolls out of reach - almost. Not quite. It happens fast. Ilune grabs his hood, yanking Keith up with enough force for the blade to fall out his hands. It’s nothing the enemy wouldn’t try, so arguably the move is acceptable, but it’s not commonplace in sparring. Keith propels himself into a kick. It leads him nowhere but further into trouble. Ilune tosses him across the room. His back hits the wall with a thud. Wincing, Keith grits his teeth. He hauls himself back onto his feet. He’s too slow. Far too slow, even with his determination. And then his balance falters notably.

Ilune clicks her tongue.

”If I didn’t think putting you in your place would take very long, I’d be disappointed.”

Krolia sees red.

It’s without thought, without any tact, that she lunges for the knife Keith dropped and brings it up to meet Ilune’s blade fiercely. Her opponent is stunned and it’s enough of a leeway for Krolia to land a series of parries that cut ruthlessly through every counterattack. Spinning into the next strike, Krolia meet’s Ilune’s blade with her own. It’s a stalemate they both lean into. Slowly, their eyes met over luxite. Now their movements have come to a halt, recognition flashes in Ilune’s eyes.

_“Krolia!”_

“You don’t look happy to see me, Ilune.”

“Believe me, I’m not.”

“That makes two of us, then.” Krolia keeps their stalemate locked. “Keith, are you alright?”

Keith says nothing for a moment, staring blankly between the two of them. His cheeks are flushed and eyes blown wide.

“I’m fine. We were just training,” he eventually gets out between gritted teeth. The tension in the room is palpable, and it only makes Krolia’s frustration heighten. Ilune has made her son uncomfortable, unwelcome. It’s intolerable.

“It didn’t sound that way to me.” Krolia clenches her jaw, chin lifting. “Care to explain yourself?”

Ilune mirrors the stance, shoulders rolling back - the signs of someone prepared to pounce and break a stalemate at any moment.

“As the kit said, we were having a morning dual.”

Pushing into the brace, Krolia glares.

“That’s hardly an explanation for your commentary.”

Ilune shoves back, a warning. “I don’t have to answer to you, Krolia!”

“If you’re unwilling to answer, then perhaps we could continue this session in private.”  

At that, Ilune snorts. Krolia doesn’t understand why her challenge is funny.

“You never were subtle, Krolia. I can smell it on you, the desire to protect him as if he were your own.”

The words have Krolia’s confidence faltering in a way she cannot hope to hide. Judging by the way Ilune’s eyes flash with surprise, Keith too must show a visible reaction. It’s a shame they are both apparently poor liars in the face of personal affairs; Kaine was their only hope on that front.

Breaking the stalemate, Ilune steps back. As she does, her blade retracts to its dormant form before being sheathed.

“Of course, he is your spawn.”

Krolia retains her defensive position, eyes staring Ilune down. The lack of resolution is aggravating, but it seems Ilune is keen to leave. Stalking toward the door, Ilune sweeps past Krolia. Unlike with Sorang, the brushing of their shoulders is not playful.

“He takes after you, you know.”

“Thank you,” Krolia says just to be deliberately obtuse and make one final jab in a battle that she has no choice but to forfeit.

Before she leaves, Ilune strikes back. “That wasn’t a compliment.”

In Ilune’s absence, the tension builds rather than subsides. The air is thick enough to cut with the knife in Krolia’s hands. One look at Keith solves nothing. His face is still tinged with a flush, fist clenched and eyes narrowed. His expression holds all the force it does when he fights. Holding out the knife, Krolia clears her throat.

“This belongs to you.”

The knife is taken so hastily, it’s almost snatched. Then Keith is turning away, his back the only part of him she can see. It’s unexpected. The rigid posture, the biting silence - Krolia doesn’t understand. Keith makes it three steps before coming to a halt by the doorway. Turning his head, Keith catches her eyes. His expression is ablaze with fire that has every intention of burning and it’s unyielding. Krolia has nowhere to hide under the intensity of those eyes.

“Why did you do that?” He asks.

“You were losing.” It doesn’t deter him.

“It was just a training session.”

Krolia shakes her head firmly. This is one thing she cannot compromise on. This was a lesson, one that’s only purpose had been to humiliate and belittle. “The way she spoke to you was unacceptable.”

“I don’t need you to fight my battles.” The words echo through the training room. Bowing his head, Keith huffs. “I can handle myself.”

“Not in words,” Krolia observes. He fought well with the blade, but said nothing back. There is being tolerant, and then there is being subjected to things nobody should tolerate.

A long sigh escapes Keith’s lips as he hovers in the doorway.

“You don’t… -“ As if pained, he pauses with the same visible flinch from their talk in the sentry ship. “You don’t get to do this.”

Once again, Krolia can’t see his face. But there’s resignation swathed all over his voice. She still doesn’t understand.

“Do what, Keith?”

Leaning against the doorframe, Keith gestures aimlessly.

“Just - _stand here_. Like that. Lecture me about stuff...”

“I’m not lecturing you, Keith. I’m trying to support you.” _I’m trying to be the parent I couldn’t be before._

Keith barks out a laugh. It’s chilling, unkind in a way that doesn’t quite reach her. His words have the power of a mighty storm that swirls dangerously. Krolia realises then that she has felt none of the gusts, a mere fraction of the rain. This storm is his own and is ploughs on mercilessly.

“Look. It doesn’t matter, okay? I mean, it does but - it shouldn’t matter this much. Not to you.”

 _Not to you._ Krolia is unable to fathom that, unable to stop herself.

“Of course it matters, you are my son.”

Keith visibly swallows, discarding whatever words dance on his tongue in favour of something else.

“You left me.”

It’s calculating, a challenge that is echoed in the way he tilts his head up a fraction. Not out of pride, of fear. Krolia has seen this in wounded enemies before. It’s a tactic she herself deploys at times. The jutting of the chin, the broadening of the shoulders before being dealt a final blow. A last attempt to keep composure, appear strong on the precipice of an undoing.

“For the mission.” It’s the truth, and if Keith is as pragmatic and logical as he has proven to be so far, then maybe he will grasp this. In her desperation to reach common ground, Krolia ventures too far. “Have you not also left people in order to carry out the mission?”

They’re the wrong words, despite being rooted in a practical argument. The reaction is immediate. None of the anguish smearing over his face is shared with her. It sinks back into his chest, shackling him to things Krolia cannot begin to name. Oh, she’s missed so much.

“That’s different,” Keith finally says, words breaking as they form.

“Is it?” She’s genuinely curious. The comparison has weight from an objective standpoint. Then again, this is a situation driven by rugged and raw emotions. Unspoken things burrowed beneath ribs and tucked behind mouths are now crawling out of the shadows. Not all of them are pleasant.

Again, Krolia sees the gaps visibly between the tired lines on his face. Giant craters housing stories she wasn’t there to begin and end or even just read. Stories are plagued by her name but lacking in her presence.

She is a mirage on the desert, a ghost tethered to a past never experienced.

Keith’s gaze snaps up.

“Yeah, it is.” Much like on the battlefield, Keith learns quickly. Whilst he’s an honourable fighter, he is determined and will do whatever it takes. He won’t quit. When Krolia catches a rare and pernicious glint in his eyes, she prepares to be disarmed. “They could go on without me. They didn’t need me.”

Pressing her eyes shut, Krolia steels herself. The implications of his words are jarring, a mother’s worst reality: to have failed their child. Jaw clenched, Krolia meets his gaze. He needed her. The universe needed her too.

War never was a place for easy choices.

“Keith,” Krolia starts, heart lurching in her chest uncomfortably. She’s veering, he’s drifting. “I’m not saying that I liked the idea.”

There’s a shallow laugh that is torn viciously from Keith’s throat, born from something that isn’t in the realm of mirth. It’s been chewed out and mangled in the jaws of a pernicious universe, now hanging off the edge of her son’s lips. It’s one of the worst sounds she has heard come from him. Krolia isn’t sure what merits such bitter jaded amusement, but she doesn't know a lot of things about Keith, besides the things he stands for.

That keeps being made clear.

“What are you saying, then?” he asks. “Cos all I’m hearing are excuses that don’t make sense tied together.”

 _Excuses._ Keith’s voice is so calm, so controlled. In comparison, hers is not. Because Keith is detached in a way that is ruinous. He is choosing to be a spectator again, he is choosing to comment as if a third party that has no direct involvement. If it meant him connecting, Krolia would welcome the barrage of a thousand storms. Instead, the space between them widens. And it merely instigates her own turmoil into taking a real lump in her throat she can hardly talk through.

“I had to protect our universe, protect your world - I had to protect you!”

“You made your choice. That choice left me alone.”

Krolia leans forwards in a surge of urgency. “ _Keith._ If I had any idea that your father-“

“-This isn’t about Dad, this is about you.”

“No Keith - this is about our family!”

That’s the catalyst. Keith engages fully. His hands stretch out, flailing as his voice splinters and cracks right down the middle.

“That you walked out on!”

Keith deals in truths, much like herself if not more so. There’s a lack of tact to his words at times, the nature of them so direct it sears through skin to char the bones with intent for people to listen and give their undivided attention. Krolia has come to see the kindness that emanates from her son. He doesn’t say anything to be malicious or spiteful, but he doesn’t dance around cold hard facts either.

So to hear the words spew so loosely from his mouth, his being completely unhinged and vulnerable in a way that clearly is terrifying for him to endure, is unpleasant to witness. There is no rationalising this, but Krolia is compelled to try and shed light on the situation. The universe is not a friend, war is no place for families and love. There are times when choices must be made and they must be made regardless of personal feelings.

“I left for the greater good of the universe-“

“It doesn’t change that it happened,” Keith spits firmly. The words aren’t accusatory, simply fact. But there’s a quiver in his voice that gives too much away, betrays him. Blinking hard, Keith breathes sharply in through his nose. When he opens his eyes again they’re watery and on fire. He’s on a pyre of his own design, smoke billowing higher and higher. Each word becomes heavily punctuated, as if he’s gasping for the air or holding back another gut-wrenching noise.  

“Whatever the reason, you left me on planet earth. With no explanation. My entire life, all this time it’s - I - _you weren’t there_ . And no offence, but you being here now isn’t going to just -… _magically change_ any of that.”

Silence.

There is nothing that could buffer these words, lessen their weight. Krolia hitches a breath, lips trembling. In the aftermath of his own unravelling, Keith’s eyes widen. His cheeks flush, fist unclenching in realisation of all he’s just said. There’s a flicker of shame as he withdraws. Eyes cast down, blinks hard and slow.  

“Keith…”

On the wall of the training room, the holoscreen abruptly lights up behind them. Both herself and Keith feign as much composure as possible.

“Krolia, Keith.” It’s Kolivan. “We’ve received some logs from Voltron. Thanks to Lotor, we now have remote access to all Galra files.”

Krolia catches the stunned flicker on Keith’s face.

“I’d like you to go through the intel, and send it to the appropriate location so it can be stored in our atheneum.”

“Atheneum?” Keith questions out loud, going unanswered. It’s a question for another time, one Kolivan undoubtedly will enjoy entertaining. The history of the Marmora is quite an interesting tale, after all. Now however, Kolivan’s mission takes precedence for all the wrong reasons.  

Narrowing her eyes, Krolia folds her arms. This may be a necessary and mundane task, but she has every suspicion Kolivan is orchestrating something else.

“Kolivan, you know that could take countless weeks.” It’s only as Kolivan quirks an eyebrow Krolia realises she is clinging onto earth phrases. Falling in love with that world was all too easy, disarming. Lifting her head,  Krolia starts again. The last thing she needs is Kolivan asking questions later. “It might even take phoebs.”

“I am aware that it is a time-consuming task. That is why I have assigned different drives to a number of teams. Krolia,” Kolivan turns to her, and she already knows exactly what he is going to say before the words are voiced. Kolivan is wise, but sometimes he thinks he is too clever to be caught when scheming. “I’d like you and Keith to work through drives fifty-four to fifty-nine.”

With that, the call is over. And once more, mother and child are left in only each other’s company. Krolia glances to Keith, slow and tentative. He doesn’t meet her eyes. Still, he withdraws. Hanging between them is the stasis caused by a conversation that never resolved itself, a conversation that led them into the throes of their own plight.

“You take fifty-four to six,” Keith says hastily, already walking down the hallway. “I’ll take whatever’s left.”

Before Krolia can respond, he’s gone.

* * *

Truth has no bias, and that is fundamentally a comfort and a discomfort. Like the immovable cosmic forces that reign over every creature and every star, it is impassive and impersonal. Truth cares not for what it unveils, only that it is unveiled. It may not loiter like time or gloat like fate but it is just as frightening. Thus when seeking knowledge, one must be prepared for both revelations and regrets. Sometimes, it’s a bitter and poignant mix of both.

Other times, like now, knowledge is tedious and mundane. Understated in a way that has little consequence, minimal impact. It can be digested, then discarded. The cycle of monotony is appreciated here. Much like early mornings with cold showers, it’s the same kind of persistent avoidance.

It is a strange twist of events that they now are harvesting knowledge from the very regime that sought out to erase so much Galra history and culture, allow only the empire’s censored and doctored accounts thrive. But as Marmoras herself always said, knowledge does not bend to whims. In its purest form, it is unshakeable. Sources might be riddled with agendas and deception, but a protector of truth must be prepared to look at all that is available to evaluate. They must bow to the light or the darkness in the truth, they must honour it. 

The castle’s data glows a bright and brilliant blue on the screen. Paired with Lotor’s information on the empire, it is everything that has been missing from the Marmora atheneum. As Krolia sifts through the information, she almost misses the door opening behind her. Eyes flicking over silently, Krolia waits for him to speak. There is only one person this could be.

“Where is Keith?”

Her eyes remain fixed on the data, scrolling in a way that is too listless for Kolivan to ignore. “Working on the drives, as you requested.”

“This was to be a team assignment.”

“And that it is,” Krolia sets down the current data drive on the desk. There’s too much force in the action. To cover the noise, she reaches for another. There’s no way Kolivan didn’t hear it. Saving face amounts to very little here. She cannot be prideful, when her own pride has contributed to her son’s sorrow. “We are both working to categorise the data.”

“I see.”

Pulling up the latest file, her eyes drift to Kolivan for a moment. He stands in the corner of the room, patiently. What for, she doesn’t know. But considering he hasn’t taken leave, she ought to say something. He undoubtedly has already deduced something has occurred.

“Marmoras would have been very pleased with this find,” is what she settles for. “The atheneum now has records from the empire and the Altean ship to add to what was salvaged before Zarkon’s purge.”

To her relief, he yeilds and takes the words for what they are - a coward’s evasion.

“We may be closer to fulfilling Marmoras’ original vision, but there is still much work to be done.” Kolivan’s voice lowers as he steps close enough for their shoulders to brush. “There is still knowledge to discover, even in this base.”

It’s clear what he is referencing. Even without saying it, the message rings out. Keith. Her son. Krolia cranes her neck, catching his eyes. With a nod, Kolivan makes his exit.

From that point, Krolia works at a gruelling pace. She works through sixteen data units in less than two vargas, completely clearing an entire drive in three. Keeping busy is a distraction, a means to give purpose to the restless stirring within. Somewhere in this base, her son is doing the same. He is working hard to complete this task. If anything, her devotion to this brings her closer to him. Maybe.

It’s not until she reaches her thirty-seventh data unit that her pace slows. As she inserts the unit into the computer, she is met with an anomaly. No files are labelled. Undoubtedly, they are Altean. The blue glow is the same signature as that which surrounds all files that have come directly from Coran and the castle of lions.

It makes little sense. He has been so thorough with the storage of data up to this point. Not once has Krolia stumbled across a mislabelled file or ones out of order. Not to mention, each data unit has had held hundreds of files - not handfuls. So this is curious, and merits further investigation. Fingers hover over the communication portal. She is more than capable of figuring this complication out. Yet still, she finds herself speaking.

“Keith, I need your assistance.” _I need you. I need to-_ “Please join me in data room Tango-Zero-Echo-Seven.”

Finger lifting off the communication portal, Krolia goes to click the first file. It opens to a video file, with none other than Coran sitting in front of a camera. As he talks, Krolia stares at the rest of the unlabelled list. These must all be logs, video files. Some kind of log made by each of the paladins, apparently for a time capsule. It’s possible they were sent by mistake with the rest of the data. There is no reason to hold such things in the atheneum.

Closing the video of Coran, Krolia sifts through the logs. She watches pieces of them before moving onto the next. There’s only one question on her mind, answered when the next window opens. It’s everything she suspected may be here. The screen fills with the image of her son. Keith is wearing red armour, red like the armour she wore. But it’s not the armour of the empire. It’s the paladin armour. Red works well on him, accentuates the passion he exudes. Unmistakable is the symbol of Voltron.

He looks so brave, so unspeakably honourable. An unsung hero who never asks for glory or wants his name dripped in it. He’s a knight of old, a relic of days been and gone where heroes slip into obscurity without congratulations or thanks - only the whisper of their names remain in the corners of some stars that twinkle a little brighter than the rest.

Whilst Krolia is aware that Keith had once been a paladin, that’s as far as her knowledge goes. And that is much the same for most of Keith. The outside of the puzzle is joined up enough to make an outline, but the pieces inside that show the whole picture are scrambled. Some are missing, she hasn’t earnt the right to see them yet.

Krolia knows that Keith is a part of this war, but she doesn’t know how that came to pass. She knows Kaine left their son, but she doesn’t know how or when. She knows Keith is a remarkable pilot and swordsman, but she knows not where he gained all this experience _._

She knows Shiro is a person who Keith cares for dearly - but she has no details beyond glimpsing into the bond they share.

It’s right there for all to see, exposed and unashamed in Keith’s eyes when the black paladin’s name comes up, swathed in the way his voice cracks under intangible supermassive things. The blades in the refectory had spoken with such disdain for Keith choosing the lives of two over their mission. Despite having no context and never having met this person, this _Shiro_ , Krolia is sure her son would move galaxies for him.

He would do whatever it takes as many times as it takes. That means something, that is significant. Krolia can hold nothing besides insurmountable gratitude for Shiro being in her son’s life, for doing something she and Kaine never could.

“I just want to understand…” she reasons, eyes locked on the video file she has pulled up.

It’s in exasperation her mind is made up. Keith is so far away. Sometimes it feels further than planet earth. It’s not his fault, it’s hers. Knowledge is at her fingertips, knowledge that could help.

Glancing over her shoulder, Krolia locks the door and presses play. On screen, her son’s eyes are cast down as the camera flickers into focus. His arms cross over his chest, which she has come to learn is not unusual for him. Kaine had a video recorder back on earth. She wonders how much he had documented of their son’s childhood before also leaving his side.

**_I’m Keith._ **

Keith. _Yes, Keith - that’s perfect,_ Krolia had breathed against Kaine’s forehead as their child cried their way into the world. The introduction has Krolia’s heart hiccuping. It’s so sincere, so earnest. Perhaps without the intention of doing so, Keith leaves his wonderful mark on everything he says, everything he does. This is no different. The video has barely begun yet it feels completely sacred.

 **_The pilot of the black lion-_ ** voice lowering, Keith falters. **_What should I say?_ ** He murmurs to the side, attention veering before tugging back sharply. It’s raw and unhinged, the way he presents himself here. Notably different from anything she has seen thus far. There is no storm, but there is a charismatic chaos churning beneath every word and action. He can’t quite keep up with his own energy, he can’t kerb the emotions as they erupt.

This is Keith at his most open and vulnerable. It’s mesmerising.

**_I’m a paladin, I - fly the black lion._ **

Krolia’s lips upturn as Keith’s chin tilts up proudly. For a moment, she can glimpse what he might’ve been like in his early years. Small - or rather, smaller - and equally as stubborn as her. Waddling about with avid curiosity, but firm with his objectives.

Determined to stick to the path he carved into the earth, now he cleaves it into the stars.

**_I said that already see that’s why I’m bad at this! What else am I supposed to tell you?_ **

“Tell me anything,” she whispers, smiling. It hangs like a waning crescent moon desolate and too wistful.

**_Okay. Um… I guess I’m part Galra._ **

Krolia reaches a hand out to the screen, fingers grazing over the side of his face. The projection screen stutters at the interference. Removing her hand, Krolia watches Keith idly wave the knife across the screen. Again, according to the information she has acquired, that is uncharacteristic of him. Keith’s action have purpose, weight. Nothing meanders. Yet here he is. Meandering both with his words and with the swinging of his wrist. It’s the same detachment that he held in the training room. Keith’s vacant eyes trail after the blade, heavy. So very heavy.

**_I guess being part Galra is a big deal. Might explain why I was never really good at... connecting with people._ **

A pang bursts in Krolia’s chest. Her son is brave in his kindness. The thought of people not respecting or appreciating the _good_ person he is hurts. It hurts as if it were her own integrity and person being scorned. As Keith explains the Voltron chant with a passion never dampened no matter the subject, a shaky laugh slips from Krolia’s lips.

**_I still don’t understand why I wouldn’t just say Voltron._ **

“Nor do I,” she admits. The elation she feels at this brief connection has her smile returning. “It’s so much-”

**_-faster!_ **

“One person says it-”

**_Right?_ **

“Yes, Keith.”

**_Done. I say Voltron and then the chant is over it doesn’t have to be complicated!_ **

His eyes go wide on the screen, frustration rippling across every inch of him. It’s one of the most dynamic and engaging things Krolia has ever seen. And then he flinches in that familiar way that never should be familiar. The emotions in his eyes distort. It’s raw panic. There’s distress, tucked away quickly, but she spots it. Krolia leans forwards, a sick dread stirring in her gut.  

“Keith, what’s wrong?”

Hastily, Keith yanks himself back from the screen. It’s a withdrawal, born out of fear. He bows his head, eyes pressed shut. All the colours in his voice wane, the fluidity of his gestures come to an abrupt jarring standstill. A terrible crack develops in his voice as he speaks. It climbs up into every word, splitting them open. Just as it had done in the training room. Teeth gnash together, fists clenched hard.  

**_I am so sorry._ **

It breaks her heart, to see him so ashamed of his expression and the vibrant intensity of his emotions peeking out for just a moment.

“No,” Krolia says gently. “No, Keith. You have nothing to be sorry for.”

Her words go ignored. He doesn’t hear her. And it’s possible he’s never heard such words before, because he apologises _again_. Despite how clipped the speech is, it’s blunted. There’s no force behind them anymore, no momentum driving them. They run solely on the weight carried in each syllable. Her son doesn’t yield. But here he is yielding, accepting this defeat.

**_I’m so sorry I - I guess.... I’ve a bit of temper. So._ **

Krolia is no stranger to fire. She is all too familiar with infernos that blaze without remorse beneath skin, that reduce bones to ash. The fires that relentlessly spread through fingertips and the molten hot fluid that pours into the eyes. It’s scalding, even with hard blinks. But not all fire is angry and volatile. Not all these flames are destructive. And for Keith to be so deeply troubled by simply presenting his feelings about a ridiculous team chant is unsettling. Unfair.

“What happened?” she asks imploringly.

**_I don’t know why I’m that way._ **

“Tell me, Keith. Who was it that made you doubt so much of yourself?”

**_Maybe... I’m naturally untrusting because my mum left me._ **

Knowledge brings revelations or regrets.

This brings remorse.

“No…”

**_And so instead of accepting people into my life-_ **

She did this. She is responsible for the anguish right here, bleeding out onto the camera.

**_-I push them away before they reject me._ **

She left, and the aftermath of that shook Keith to the core. He felt unwanted. Alone. _Abandoned_ and rejected.

Worse, he felt unloved.

Her son felt unloved, possibly even _unloveable._ Because of her.

**_I guess I have some walls up._ **

Then he built walls. High and sturdy. Immovable objects and unstoppable forces collide, both nestled within himself. It has created the worst kind of concoction. Keith spent all this time seeking out solitude. Fear that people would treat him how his mother had. He hid himself from the world, hands frantically pressing hard down on his throat and squeezing to stifle himself. His emotions were bottled and forced between his lungs, slipping out with every raspy word.

He suppressed himself, he _rejected_ himself.

Keith visibly recoils, slamming his fists on the table.

**_I - I’m - I’m outta here - get me outta here!_ **

There’s a frenzy in his words that Krolia has never heard before. This is the kind of unravelling she never expected or wanted to hear. Blinking back tears, she lunges forwards.

“Keith-!”

**_I’m outta here._ **

Her hand slips through his shoulder as he leaps to his feet.

**_I said I wouldn’t cry!_ **

The screen fades to black within moments. He’s gone. But the choked sob mangled up in his words, the clear excruciating turmoil he endured, and has constantly endured for so long, doesn’t go. It draws a terrible low keening noise from her sore throat.

“Krolia, are you in there?”

Hitching a breath, Krolia presses a hand tight to her mouth and bites down. In a series of rapid blinks the moisture snakes down her face.

“It’s Keith.”

_I’m Keith. I pilot the black lion._

With a brisk wipe, her face is dry. Closing the video file, Krolia unlocks the door. She has to clench her fists to keep them steady. Everything inside her is eroding, the guilt and shame gnawing at her. Perhaps it’s cowardly, perhaps Keith deserves better than this, but Krolia turns her back to the door. It’s the best shield she has. Until it isn’t. Keith’s voice is everywhere, edging closer and consuming her entirety. Lifting up the suit’s mask, Krolia lets another wave of unshed tears finally fall.

“What is it?” Keith asks eagerly from the doorway. “Did you find something?”

Krolia leans against the console for support. This has been an invasion of privacy on her part. And now she has knowledge, she isn’t sure she really wants it. Some truths are too terrible to uncover. Those words were not meant for anyone to see, they were not spoken to speak to future generations. Keith spoke them to himself. For himself. By himself.

_Maybe I’m naturally untrusting because my mum left me-_

“Krolia?”

With a weak shake of her head, she speaks. The mask does a better job at concealing the tremors than she ever could do alone. It gives her enough confidence to turn and face him. It’s still unfair. She can see him, she has seen so much of him. He gives so much, always. He has given and the universe has always taken. Even now, Krolia is part of that cycle.  

“There must have been some issues in transferring the data over. It proved to be nothing.”  

“Oh.” Cocking his head towards the console, Keith blinks. No matter how this situation makes him feel personally, he endeavours to stay focused on their mission. He’s trying so hard. “Is there anything else you need?”

 _Yes. Yes there is._ The words crumble to dust in her mouth. It’s uncomfortable to swallow. She doesn’t want to let him slip away, let this go. _She can’t._ But Krolia has done a lot of things she didn’t want to do before. Sparing her son further pain is the most important mission she can undertake now.

She left him once. That dealt damage, and those words from the video prove it might be irreparable. Her son believes there are faults inside him when really there is fortitude. _I don’t know why I’m that way._

“That’s all, Keith. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”

“No problem. I’ll just… get back to those files.”

His response changes things, because he sounds disappointed. No, rejected. _I’m outta here - get me outta here!_ That’s enough for Krolia to spin on her heel. The mask lifts, exposing everything. It’s terrifying. But she has to try. She’s out the door and calling his name down the hallway. Keith turns. Fast and helplessly hopeful before he has the chance to school his expression.

“I’d like to speak with you.” It’s difficult to hold her composure, not let everything unravel. But the pace of her words is too disjointed, frantic enough for Keith’s eyes to widen knowingly. “Just for a moment, if that’s okay.”

For the first time in their interactions, Keith doesn’t hesitate. There is no lack of conviction in his movements. The tensions drips from his shoulders as he heads back into the room. Without further prompting, he takes a seat on the bench. He knows. He has to. Either that, or Keith is itching for something constructive they can build as much as she is. And maybe he’ll take whatever he can get, even a trivial discussion over data files. But that could also be wishful thinking, foolish hope sauntering into the scene.

“It’s true,” Krolia says the moment the door is closed. She takes a seat beside him. If this is happening, then she needs to start strong and cut no corners. Take a leaf from Kolivan, concise but never curt. Frowning, Keith glances over to the files. “It’s all true.”

“What are you talking about?”

“When I left you, I didn’t say goodbye.”

Her words have Keith’s immediate attention. Pressing her eyes shut, Krolia hitches a breath. Behind her eyelids, she’s right there again. On earth. The sun is hanging low in the sky, morning is ready to break on a day that will torment her every waking hour, a day that never truly sets. Kaine stands by her side, face pinched with sadness - he is determined not to let it eclipse their horizon. Her son is in her arms as Krolia cradles Keith for perhaps the final time.

In retrospect, it had been the last time.

She can never hold him that way again, she can never swing him gently from side to side to an unsung waltz from those strange records Kaine used to play. Even if he is small and lithe as a young adult, it’s different. If Keith allows it, she can draw him close. But it will never be the same as the short time she had with him.

“What did you say?” Keith asks, sensing there is an untold story here.

Opening her eyes, Krolia takes a shaky breath. He’s sitting closer now, fingers skating down his sides in apprehension. Their knees bump together in his haste to catch her attention. She looks at him, _her son_.

As her hands move nervously down her thighs to clasp her knees, their paths cross and Keith’s fingers brush hers. But it will never be the same as that touch in the twilight, her tugging a single finger from the hold of his tiny ones, of Krolia passing him over to his father, of her kissing his forehead fiercely and whispering-

“Enhreit Kasul.”

“What does that mean?” There’s still an insistence to his tone. His fingers haven’t moved, subtle enough to be merely coincidence. She’s still unsure. Krolia pries her hands away to fold her arms. Keith mimics the gesture, pursing his lips tight.

“It is hard to describe. To my knowledge, there is no real translation in earth tongue.”

That doesn’t appear to be enough incentive for Keith’s curiosity to taper away. There’s a natural quirk of his eyebrow as his chin flicks up. Next comes the echo of a smile, barely tingling the corner of his mouth. Before Krolia can commit it to memory, it’s gone. But Keith isn’t gone, he is still here.

Waiting.

He is waiting so patiently for these words. And it makes no sense how he waits. Because he has waited so long for her, for this, to say what he said and to reach this point. It’s overwhelming that they even have this moment together. Past and present have met in the most unthinkable of ways.

Krolia cannot let this be in vain, she cannot fail him again. There is every chance that letting the sun finally set on that day will ensure another never rises where she can see her son, or glimpse that orange dawn.

As if somehow sensing the monumental gravity of it all, Keith clears his throat.

“Hey,” he breathes. “I’m pretty sure I can handle the bad translation. I mean - it can’t be worse than some of the things Coran comes out with.”

“I would certainly hope so…”

The amusement is fleeting, but nonetheless appreciated. Krolia regathers herself, eyes drifting to the wall ahead.

“Enhreit Kasul,” she says reverently, for the first time in years out loud. Not against his forehead, but just as fiercely as that day on earth. Turning her gaze to him, Krolia hums gently. “It is the wish to be strong without the thing that makes you whole.”

Keith’s mouth falls open, eyes widening. There’s moisture he’s too stunned to blink away.

“You were right, Keith. No matter how hard that choice was, I still made it. I assumed I understood the situation, but I don’t.”

Maybe a few days ago, this would have tasted bitter on her tongue to admit. Now it’s simply delivered in the way an accepting parent acknowledges their mistakes, sacrificing pride and bowing to the devotion they yearn to serve.

Before Keith can say what is forming around his lips, the one word she has never heard him say that is missing from their whole story, Krolia continues. He keeps giving and giving. He gives so much, he’d even give this.

“I don’t expect you to call me your mother, I have yet to prove myself as the parent you deserve.” Pause. Something unpleasant lodges in her throat, destablising the steady flow of her words. “Keith, I don’t expect anything from you. I want to make sure you understand that. But I hope that in time we can make up at least a few of the days we did not have to be by each other’s sides.”

Despite the assurance in her voice, it’s a question only Keith can answer, a cadence only Keith can end; this is a door only Keith can open. Relinquishing control is frightening, but the hands she has placed her trust in are so very kind and brave.

If there is one thing Krolia can give her son it is this control, this choice.

With bated breath, Krolia waits.

And the brightest star in the Ranthig system is nowhere near as rare and astonishing as this, not even the scriptures from the scrolls tucked into the walls of the Marmora atheneum are as enlightening or wondrous as this rhapsody.

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“I’d like that.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much to my dear friends who were so encouraging throughout me writing this. i enjoyed this story so much im so chuffed to share it!!! 
> 
> .
> 
> GALRA TRANSLATIONS: 
> 
> \- Zelkaxim travoust: 'good to see you again', not for everyday situations, tinged with a nostalgic and wistful undertone, usually after a great deal of time has passed
> 
> \- Foentarra: 'dear friend/old friend' 
> 
> \- Enhreit Kasul: the wish to be strong without the thing that makes you whole


End file.
